


Nothing Left to Lose

by AngstandPizzaRolls



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Humor, M/M, Medical insults, Prison AU, Prison Riot, Romance, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstandPizzaRolls/pseuds/AngstandPizzaRolls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House's desperate need for his next fix lands them both in prison, and Wilson is not sure he’ll ever be able to forgive him.<br/>As tensions rise and dangerous enemies are made on the inside, Wilson finds he might have no choice but to trust House and give up everything if they're going to make it out alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Context:  
> AU after season 7  
> After his first stint in prison, House returns to the hospital under Cuddy's watchful and slightly vindictive eye. He is sent back to prison before he can pick up his new team or get his old team back.
> 
> Title borrowed from Janis Joplin "Me and Bobby McGee"  
> Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose

The metal doors crashing shut behind him was the cherry on top of a fantastic year. Wilson tried to hold himself with as much dignity as he could muster, but that wasn’t much after the inspection he’d just endured. It didn’t really matter though. Every man they passed looked like they wanted to break him in half or swallow him whole. Neither was very reassuring as he followed the expressionless guard through the common area to the tiny stone box that would be his home for the next five years. 

He was left, unceremoniously in the doorway of his cell. There was a man sprawled out on the bottom bunk, who gave him a bored look before turning back to his magazine. Wilson took a deep breath and decided it was probably best to skip pleasantries. 

He went over to the metal cabinet in the corner. Inside, it was full of the other man’s belongings. Clothes, toilet paper, some letters. There was enough space on the first shelf for his scarce things, though. They’d given him a spare regulation uniform and some basic toiletries which he knew he should be grateful for, but he couldn’t manage to muster any gratitude. He started to shove his things inside, but the rough voice beside him stopped him, “That’s my shelf.”

“I’ll use the other one, then.” Wilson conceded, he didn’t really care where the hell his shit was at this point, and there was no point in angering the man he would be locked in a small room with for several hours every day. 

Wilson had to take a moment to steady himself as thoughts of the next few years of his life stretched out in his mind. When he’d gotten himself under control, he started to set his stuff on the lower shelf.

“That’s my shelf too.” 

The man met his eyes with an even stare, unflinching for the several seconds it took Wilson to decide what the best course of action was. The shock, fear, and anger that had been welling up inside him for months finally seeped its way into his brain. He didn’t know if it was the weak light struggling in through the small grimy window, or the knowledge that this man the size of truck could probably kill him without even getting up that finally sent him over the edge, but he decided it was better to be shanked early than live with the suspense.

“Not anymore.” He said, not looking away as he shoved what little he had onto the bottom shelf. His cellmate didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, but Wilson could feel his eyes on him as he left the cell and took his first unaccompanied steps into the common area. 

It didn’t take long for him to tour all the areas of the prison that weren’t restricted to him. The prison was a relatively small facility compared to the one he visited the last time House was incarcerated. Well, he’d thought about visiting. Tried to, but Wilson had known that as soon as he saw him again, he wouldn’t be able to hold on to his anger and he would’ve forgiven him. Which is exactly what happened when House returned to the hospital.

Sometimes Wilson hated Cuddy for allowing House to return to work-he knows she secretly loved having so much power over him, the power to send him back to prison whenever she wanted. It had to be better than any apology-Sometimes he hates her because he’s never been strong enough to keep Greg House out of his life and she let House comes back despite this. And letting House back in was the worst thing Wilson has ever done.

That selfish, childish, sociopathic, addict was his best friend, which says things about James that he’s not proud of, and forgiving him, caring about him, was only ever going to get him in trouble. He was naive to think that that trouble wouldn’t include prison.

But when Tritter heard about House’s stint in prison for driving his car through Cuddy’s dining room, that he was back on Vicodin and worse than ever, Wilson got sucked back into House’s black hole of destructive behavior and found himself on the wrong side of the fight defending House against the detective. At the time, he didn’t know Tritter had found the little gag gift Wilson had given to House to cheer him up years ago when all his fellows quit: The stamp of Wilson’s signature. So you can stop butchering my signature, He’d said and House had given him a private smile, the first one since Cameron, Chase, and Foreman abandoned him. 

He didn’t know that Tritter had collected the stamp as evidence in his latest investigation, so when House came to him, Wilson promised he’d protect him. He still remembers the way House looked that night, drunk, shaking, on the verge of breaking down. House had grabbed his arms painfully, fingers twisting in his shirt, eyes glassy and voice broken, “Please, Jimmy, I can’t go back.”

It was all downhill from there. Tritter was after vengeance and out to humiliate House, smug in the fact that he had been right all along. House was put on trial for the same crimes as he had five years before and without Cuddy there to save him, there was little hope. Wilson testified that the numerous prescriptions were all written by him and Tritter caught him in the lie, using his own stupid joke against him. Over fifty identical signatures were the final blow for them. Fraud and Perjury were at the top of a long and creative list of offenses to put the menace Gregory House and his mindless accomplice behind bars.

Wilson hadn’t spoken to him since he was sentenced and he wasn’t looking forward to the moment they inevitably came face to face once again. Being trapped in the same prison with House was just one of many punishments for ever thinking it was a good idea to be that man’s friend. All he could do was settle in and hope the days passed quickly. 

His private tour ended at the infirmary. They wouldn’t let him inside without a reason, but he watched the familiar bustle through the windows. It was strange, the clinic didn’t look much like the hospitals he’d worked at, but he could recognize everything. The doctors, the patients, the medicine, the comfortable rush of keeping the place running and keeping people alive. 

“You’re Dr. Wilson, aren’t you?”

He looked overs shoulder, startled at hearing his title. The ‘Dr.’ bit had fallen off somewhere in the hours of being processed into the system and having his freedom stripped away. But the young blond woman who had approached at some point had just called him Doctor and made the ache in his chest flare up again. 

“I used to be.” He said, turning back to the glass. It was easier than seeing the woman, a doctor if the white coat was anything to go by, looking at him with big eyes. She reminded him of Cameron. That just made it a little bit worse. 

“I heard about your case-well I followed it in the news actually. I’ve kind of always dreamed of working at Princeton Plainsboro so when I found out you were coming here I was…well I wasn’t excited. That’s a horrible thing to say but-”

“Nice to meet you.” Wilson rushed while she was taking a breath. On any other day he could’ve politely listened to her prattle on but not in the mood he was in, not today. 

“Yeah, sorry. I’m Melanie Porter.” She stepped up to the glass beside him but instead of watching the infirmary, her eyes were on his face. He tried to keep his expression light. Even though he really didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, he didn’t want her to think he was hostile.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

He glanced over hesitantly at her gentle words. For months a few people had been looking at him with disgust for breaking the law and enabling an addict, but most, like his parents and his now ex-girlfriend/ex-wife, looked at him with disappointment. He would’ve never expected pity from a complete stranger. What had he done to earn pity?

“It’s horrible the way Dr. House dragged you down with him.” Melanie said, but he only half-listened to her after that. His anger had come to life inside him again. Finally someone saw his side of things. He was just a victim, a tool that House used to wreck his life and everything in it. But even as he thought it, it didn’t ring entirely true. It was easy to blame House-because it was all House’s fault-but Wilson had made choices too.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” He pulled himself out of his thoughts when he noticed that she had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly. 

“Do you miss it?” 

Looking back through the window, he watched an older doctor scribbling in a chart as a patient spoke. The doctor glanced up, laughed at something he must’ve said and tucked the chart under his arm. The patient stood and shook his hand, smiling hugely, even as he was escorted out by an armed guard.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He said. As an oncologist, bad news was pretty much the only kind he had but sometimes he got to tell a patient that they were in remission, or a family member that the person they love isn’t going to die. He could go weeks, months, without any hope, then just one smile would remind him why he became a doctor. But no matter how many hopeless months passed in here, he wouldn’t get that smile.

“Dr. Porter.” 

Melanie jumped and they both saw the older doctor leaning out the door down the hall. 

“Coming.” She said, and turned back to Wilson. “It was nice to meet you. Well, not nice but-”

“I know what you mean.” He smiled politely and watched her walk away. When she had disappeared through the door, the other doctor remained.

“If you’re not sick, or wounded, or dying of something get out of here,” He said, and waited with a stern glare until Wilson left.

Going back to his cell was even less appealing than mingling in the common area. So, with no where else to go, he drifted toward the phones.

There were only a few people on his approved calling list, only a few people who hadn’t deserted him when shit went sideways. He stared at the buttons for a long time, receiver in hand, before his fingers fell into a familiar rhythm and punched in the number for the hospital. It took twenty minutes for him to be directed, redirected, re-redirected and finally get a hold of Lindsay, one of the nurses in oncology. 

“James! It’s so good to hear from you. I hope you’re alright.” She asked brightly.

He cringed, then tried to muster some enthusiasm. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I was just calling to check up, see how everyone’s doing.” 

“Oh, you are too sweet but you’re not on their cases anymore. You know I can’t release confidential patient information.”

“I know, I just…” Wilson sighed and slumped back against the wall. “I just need to know that they’re alright.” 

“You’re patients are in very capable hands,” Her voice hesitated for moment before she stressed her next few words. “All of your patients.” 

“So no one’s died?”

“I can’t release confidential-”

“can’t release confidential patient information. I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed again.

“James, I…I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

She couldn’t see him but he nodded anyway, reflexively. He just didn’t know what to say. 

“It’s such a shame you got sucked into House’s downward spiral-”

Wilson disconnected the call without another word.

 

| | | | |

 

He made his way back to the library. The quiet was appealing even if the selection of books wasn’t. It was nearly deserted when he found a table in the corner by a window to pretend to read a dusty law book. 

He was staring out the window at the sky when sound of an odd but familiar gait reached him. It was the steady _tap-step_ of a man walking with a cane. He knew better than to think it was a coincidence. 

Turning his gaze back to the book, he didn’t look up as a figure appeared in his peripheral vision, or when that figure took the seat across the table from him. 

“Nice of you to finally show up.” House said and Wilson bit his tongue to keep from shouting as his anger bubbled up his throat, choking him. “I’ve got it all worked out. We can bust out of here in a few days. I just need some time to gather supplies.”

Wilson shoved up from his seat and slammed the book closed. He left it behind on the table as he stormed away.

“Oh come on!” House called after him. A moment later the _tap-step tap-step tap-step_ sounded behind him.

He ducked into an aisle and tried to find his way out of the maze of bookshelves before House could catch him. Running away wasn’t the way he’d imagined his first encounter with House would go, but now that it was happening, he knew it was the only way. If he stayed, he would either killed him or scream at him. One word is all it would taken for House to latch on until Wilson was speaking to him again.

Then again, the closer that tap-step tap-step got, the more appealing a murder charge was becoming. 

“Plan A involves two spoons and a lot of digging.” 

Wilson turned right and nearly ran into a cinderblock wall. He spun quickly and tried to backtrack but House blocked his path. He ducked left and collided with House’s cane, propped against the wall at chest height to keep him pinned. 

He gritted his teeth and shoved the cane. It clattered aside, but House stepped into his personal space before he could walk away.  

“I’m particularly fond of Plan A, but if that doesn’t work, I can always get Foreman to bake me a cake with a file in it. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time he’s ever done that.” 

Wilson took a deep breath to steel himself before turning his gaze from the ceiling to House. He looked horrible-skin sallow, dark smudges under his eyes, tension creasing deeper lines across his face-but he was a lot closer than Wilson was expecting. The soft puffs of his breath against Wilson’s chin was distracting, but it wasn’t enough to make him forget where they were and why exactly they were there. He saw the strained smirk House was trying to use to mask his desperation. His lips were about all he could see. 

“Move.”

“Or if worst comes to worst we could tie our bedsheets together and go out the window. Then we’d still have to get through the bars.” He said, murmuring in mock contemplation. “ _Okay_ , so I don’t have _all_ the details worked out-”

“Get out of my way!” House didn’t acknowledge Wilson’s outburst, or the way his jaw was clenched so hard his teeth were creaking. He just kept talking. At least until Wilson grabbed the front of his shirt in tight fists and shoved him out of the way. 

House dug in with his cane and stayed firmly in his space, one hand coming up to clasp at the collar of Wilson’s shirt for balance. 

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Wilson let go of the front of his shirt and grabbed House’s arm to try and get his hands off of him, but House held tightly, knuckles brushing against Wilson’s neck. “This isn’t something I’m going to just forgive. You can’t make a few cute remarks and expect things to go back to the way they were.”

“You think I’m cute?”

“You’re despicable.” Wilson growled, yanking House’s hand away from his collar.House let him shove past, didn’t try to stop him again and somehow that made him even angrier. A few feet away now, he stopped and turned to jab an accusing finger at him, “My whole life got ripped away because of you! The worst thing is I saw it coming the whole time. I thought I was smart enough to avoid your insane soul-sucking destruction. From the moment I met you, I knew you were going to ruin my life but I thought…Doesn’t matter what I thought. I guess I’m just as big an idiot as you always said.”

He ran out of steam after flinging so much of his anger at House. He had so much left so say but he didn’t have anything to keep him going any more. No hope that maybe this time his lecture would actually get through and make House realize just how badly he’d messed up. So he turned and walked away. 

“Wilson.” He’d only made it a few more feet when House’s voice reached him. “I’m sorry.”

He kept walking. 

 

| | | | |

 

Wilson reached the door of his cell and stopped just outside. He had to pause for a moment to gather his resolve, eyes closed, breath heavy, before he could will himself to step back inside. The common area wasn’t much better than the small cell, but at least there was room to breath his own stale air. He didn’t want to risk seeing House again. Not after the conversation they’d just had. 

It wouldn’t take House much effort to work out which cell he was assigned to, but Wilson had to hope the man knew him well enough not to press him right now. 

There was a crowd in his room, an inmate blocking the window and another leaning against the ladder Wilson sought out. His cellmate, still nameless, was sprawled lazily across the lower bunk just like he had been when Wilson left. The three of them took up so much of the limited floor space, Wilson was left standing in the doorway.

“Hey man,” The one blocking his path said, jutting out his chin in a rough welcoming gesture. He smacked Wilson’s cellmate’s foot and asked, “This your new roomie, Franco?”

“Who the fuck else would he be?” The man by the window snapped. 

“What’s your name?” The man by the ladder turned to Wilson, ignoring his friend’s harsh words. 

“James Wilson.” He shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He had to fight the urge to offer his hand to shake. All he knew about prison he’d learned from TV and movies. House had refused to talk about it altogether aside from a few jokes in poor taste Wilson was mostly sure weren’t true. He didn’t know much, but he was pretty sure handshakes weren’t the kind of manners he would need here. 

“Micky.” The inmate said. “What’d they get you for?”

“I, uh, trusted a drug addict.” Wilson said, hoping that answer was enough of an answer without having to go into too much detail. This group wasn’t exactly the PPTH Ethics Committee but he was still embarrassed by what he’d done. 

He gestured behind Micky with a sweep of his arm, making it as clear as he could in as polite a way as he could given the mood he was in that he needed him to move his ass. Micky looked blank for a moment, then it seemed to click in his mind. He looked at the ladder and back at Wilson, leaning more of his weight on the rung of the ladder his arm rested on. 

“Did he roll on you? Cagey bastards. Can’t trust a single one of them.” 

“No he didn’t…roll on me. I tried to help him, but I got caught.” Wilson gestured again but Micky ignored it and went on.

“So it was your own fault. Why-”

“Nobody fucking cares Mick.” The man by the window snatched up the bible on the table beside him and threw it at Micky. It wasn’t close to hitting its intended target, crashing against the wall by Wilson’s head. 

“Just try’na make friends. Damn.”

“Shake him down already or shut up.”

Wilson stood up straighter as subtly as he could. There was no way for him to make a casual exit now as Micky and the man by the window argued. Franco was watching him intensely with flat eyes. 

Micky scowled, pushing away from the frame of the bed toward the door. He draped an arm across Wilson’s shoulders and steered him out of the room. “Don’t listen to Tyrell, man. Nobody’s gonna give you shit unless you let ‘em.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Wilson said, trying to shrug away from the limp weight of his arm on his shoulders. The man was a few inches taller and had about fifty pounds on him, and even though his tone was light, Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a friendly exchange. 

He let himself be led through the hall he’d just passed through, searching for some way out, but he came up empty. Micky wasn’t interested in going any further than the cafeteria. Groups milled around the large room, overtaking the tables and scattered about against the wall. 

Wilson wasn’t given much of a choice but to take the seat across the table from Micky as he said, “I heard you was a doctor.”

“I was but-”

“I got this kinda rash.” Micky said and before Wilson could protest any further, he stood a bit and lifted up his tee shirt. Wilson caught sight of an angry festering rash sweeping out of the top of Micky’s pants before he cringed away. 

“I’m just an oncologist.”

“You’re a stomach doctor. So what? You went to medical school.” He stood up a little more, crowding Wilson’s line of sight and tugging down the waist of his pants to bring more of the rash into view. 

“I’m sure the doctors in the clinic could…”

“You nuts, man? Can’t trust a word they say. They part of the establishment. I need a doctor I can trust, man.” 

Wilson sighed, trying to rub the weariness out of his eyes. Any obligation he had to attend clinic duty to treat glorified diaper rashes went out the window the minute he was arrested. Still, he was torn between revulsion and that ingrained curiosity that led him to become a doctor in the first place. But he wasn’t a doctor anymore. Because of House. “You know…You’re right. This needs to get checked out, but there’s another doctor here. His name is House. He specializes in infectious diseases. I think he’ll be able to help you more than I could. He used to work with patients no one else could diagnose. He loved the challenge of solving the puzzles and he was always right. He’ll try to act coy and pretend he doesn’t care but show it to him anyway. Get it right in his face. Force him to get a good look at it. He secretly loves it.”

Micky pulled his pants back into place, weighing Wilson’s suggestion. “He sounds like a sick bastard.” 

“He is, but he’s a genius.” Wilson said coolly, fighting to hold back his grin. 

“Alright. Thanks for the referral, man.” Micky said, shoving out of his seat. “Catcha later.”

“Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

He kept to himself for the next few days, falling easily into the routine of things. He fell in line, went where he was told, and holed himself up in the library whenever he had time to himself. The food wasn’t anything to write home about but it was only a few notches below the quality of the hospital cafeteria. He tried not to think about it though. When he allowed himself to acknowledge how much he missed food, he was lost to memories of his own cooking, and his favorite take out meals which were almost always shared on House’s couch. But if he let his mind wonder too long in that direction he would remember those first few weeks House spent out of rehab, and that cooking class they took together, and how the apartment always smelled fantastic when he came home, and House always offering him little tastes off a wooden spoon. Which was just silly because Wilson was a grown man who was capable of using a spoon without his help but House insisted on feeding him and watching him closely, eyes bright with anticipation. 

Wilson indulged him because a part of him missed being that close to someone. At the time, it hadn’t even bothered him that it had been House and he hadn’t even bothered to put in the effort to find another girlfriend. 

But now that he was trying to cut House out of his life completely, it occurred to him, kept occurring to him actually, how big a part House was in his life. House has been there for every good thing that’s ever happened to him, and every bad thing, and weird thing, and fun thing. He couldn’t let himself think like that because when he did, he could feel himself start to forgive him. So he tossed good food onto the pile of things he was coming to desperately miss along with a bathroom door, his old queen size mattress, and his friends. He didn’t have as many as he thought he did, he realized after three days in. He was just resigning himself to the fact that no one would come to see him when his name got called for visitation. 

Cuddy stood up, plastic chair groaning and scraping across the ground, when he walked into the visiting center. She straightened her skirt and crossed her hands as she waited for him to meet her, mouth turned up in a sad smile.

She reached to hug him when he made it to the table. He sat in the empty chair before she could. He didn’t know how to explain that he couldn’t take the harsh reminder of his situation, a lesson he’d learned on his first day when his lawyer came to se him. He couldn’t touch one of his closest friends because a guard would bark at him from across the room and go back to reading his magazine, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t Wilson’s life he was dismissing.

He gestured for her to sit, trying to recover from the way he’d brushed her off. She sat graciously, and offered him a tense smile weighted in so much affection it made him consider hugging her anyway. His life would be ruled by those guards for the next five years whether he liked it or not. 

“How are you holding up?” She asked, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back in her chair. 

“I’ve been better.” He answered as honestly as he could. He didn’t have time to get into all the ways he was falling apart. 

“I would’ve come sooner, but I had to get my mom to watch Rachel.” Cuddy grimaced, “And you know how she can be.”

“Yeah.”

She indulged him in his silence for a moment before trying again. “The traffic here was-”

“Lisa, please. You didn’t come here for small talk.” Wilson sighed and his eyes dropped back to his hands on the table. 

“No.” She conceded. “I came here to visit a friend.”

Guilt forced him to look up at her, on the verge of apologizing, but she spoke before he could.

“I came to tell you that if you get your medical license back after all _this_ ,” She gestured vaguely around her. “There will be a job waiting for you. I promise you, James, as long as I am in charge, you will always have a home at Princeton Plainsboro.” 

Wilson sighed his relief. He hadn’t known how much that had been weighing on him, the uncertainty of his future beyond his sentence. No hospital in their right mind would hire him after being under investigation for prescription forgery not once but twice in ten years.  He wasn’t ready to give up being a doctor just yet. Cuddy’s promise was break in the overcast sky. “You have no idea how much that means to me.” 

“I would hire you back right now if I could.”

“Even after what I did?” He couldn’t help but ask. His gratitude was quickly being over taken by his curiosity. 

“You think I would punish you for trusting a friend not to screw you over?”

“I knew what he was up to. We all did.” Wilson’s brows tugged together as he leaned forward in his chair. 

“House has a way of taking anything good and destroying it because he wants everyone in the world to be just as miserable as he is.” Cuddy said, ignoring his last words. “I just hate that he dragged you down with him.”

The intense irritation that flooded his system caught him off guard. He’d been thinking the same thing for months but hearing it come from Cuddy made it worse somehow. She had known House even longer than Wilson had. She knew what kind of person he was for all that time and proclaimed to love him at one point. Yes, House had crossed the furthest line there was to cross when he crashed his car into her house but she had forgiven him. She had allowed him to come back to the hospital because she understood him. How could she be so suddenly dismissive of him now that the consequences of his actions-actions that she was fully aware of-finally caught up to him?

“Why did you let him come back?” 

As soon as the words were out, Wilson could tell Cuddy had misinterpreted them. He watched her expression shift to an apologetic one. Before she could say something that would only serve to fuel his confusing anger, he clarified, “If you hate him so much…”

“You hate him too. Don’t you?” She asked, brows tucked low over her eyes, her mouth twisted in an incredulous half-smile. 

Wilson sat back in his creaky plastic chair without a word. 

 

| | | | |

 

The question stayed with him for days. It rattled around his mind and tormented him through his waking hours. Does he hate House?

At the very least he knew he should. If someone had asked a week ago, he would’ve answered so loudly and so vehemently, foam would’ve flown from his mouth. Fuck yes. But that was when the idea of prison was more abstract and terrifying than the mind-numbing boredom-inducing reality. Now he was stuck inside grey walls with grey people, and far too much time to think. 

He spent most of that time trying to distract himself. It didn’t take long to learn that the library didn’t have anything offer but law books. There wasn’t anything there for him but the newspaper. After that, he decided he liked to walk. It was better to keep moving, not engage with anyone conversation or eye contact for too long. This was not the place to make friends. It was an even worse place to make enemies. When it occurred to him that House used to like to pace around the hospital, he pushed it aside.

Two days after Cuddy’s visit, Wilson found himself walking along the balcony of the second level of cells and considering her question for the thousandth time since she’d asked. Does he hate House?

It wasn’t a simple question. Nothing with House ever was. His initial answer was always yes, but then he would be filled with so much guilt, he’d have to convince himself that yes was the right answer. Still, even listing all the reasons House was an ass didn’t make the guilt go away completely. He hated _that_. 

Wilson was sure of this. He hated that he was filled with so much guilt for even thinking he hated House when House had probably never felt a fraction of that amount of guilt over anything in his entire life. But did he hate the man himself? The smug, selfish, rude, arrogant, entitled, asshole?

He’d never actually hated anyone before. He’d worked hard to be agreeable to everyone he met and to avoid unnecessary confrontation. Unlike some people. Still he wasn’t immune to dislike. He’d hated Vogler when he knew him, he might’ve even hated Tritter in a way. But that had been closer to revulsion. All he had for House now was anger, more anger than he’d ever had in his entire life. Sometimes he worried what would be left to feel when he burned through all his anger. 

Pausing in his walk, he leaned against the railing and looked out over the cell block that had become his zoo enclosure. There were inmates milling around below him, doing whatever they could to stave off boredom, but one inmate in particular caught his attention, like he had since the day they’d met. 

House shuffled along, no clear destination it seemed, in that exaggerated limp he adopted when his leg was giving him a particularly hard time. Wilson felt a stab of petty joy that he most likely wasn’t getting a strong enough dose of pain medication. Then everything in him rebelled and attacked him with guilt. He was a doctor for god’s sake, and the man’s best friend. At least until he made up his mind whether he hated him or not. Wilson was probably the only person in the world who cared about him anymore, beside his mother.

House used to have a team. They had all moved on, found better jobs, fallen in love, or just decided that House wasn’t worth the trouble. Not a single fellow came back when House got out of prison the first time, even after his own strange brand of begging.

House used to have Cuddy before she realized that he was the same man he’d always been and wouldn’t change for her.  A small part of Wilson thinks he might hate her too. But even that wasn’t an angry hate. It was shock that she could turn her back so quickly on someone she claimed to love. Shock that she couldn’t manage to put up with House for a year when Wilson had been doing it for almost twenty.

Wilson  tried to ignore the fact that he was upset with her for doing the same thing he was doing right now. House had chosen his addiction over the people that loved him and the people that loved him blamed him for it. 

Crossing the floor below Wilson, House grimaced. Another reminder that even the prison clinic blamed House for his addiction. They were all doctors. They knew what addicts were like and still every one of them judged him harshly. He hadn’t chosen to get addicted to Vicodin. 

But he’d chosen to relapse, a cruel part of himself thought. He had chosen to go behind Wilson’s back and screw them both over instead of being up front about his problem. 

Ever since House had gotten them both in this mess, Wilson had heard nothing but how sorry and how disappointed people were that he got dragged down by his friend’s bad habits. Wilson was just pissed. but somehow it was worse when they said things like “You had such a bright future” or “it’s such a shame you got caught in his problems”. Even Cuddy had said it in some way or another when she visited, even though she knew he’d been caught in Houses problems for their entire friendship. 

He supposed it was because he resented that everyone just assumed he hadn’t done anything wrong. That he was a completely innocent victim in all this. They didn’t know he had made House a stamp with his signature on it, practically inviting him to commit forgery. He wouldn’t tell them anyway. He just hated that everyone thought he made his choice to lie for House out of some kind of pathetic hero worship instead of what it really was, misguided loyalty. He hated that they thought of him as such a nice guy that they couldn’t even conceive of the fact that this was all partly his fault. He wasn’t so naive that he’d let this happened to him but an active participant in all the bad choices that they’d both made. 

“Hey, man.” 

Wilson jolted from his thoughts, and struggled to suppress his grimace when he realized who had approached him. “Mickey. Hey, what up?”

“I talked to your buddy House.” 

“Oh good.” Wilson stood up straighter. His eyes strayed to House who was approaching his own cell on the level below. 

“Yeah. I showed it to him and he got all weird about it like he’d never seen a rash before, man. But then I told him you sent me and he got all serious.”

“So everything worked out?” Wilson asked, torn between wanting to leave this conversation as quickly as possible and curiosity over House’s reaction. 

“Yeah man, he got me a diagnosis but he said I should get a second opinion.”

“And you won’t go to the clinic like I suggested.” Wilson sighed.

“No way. You know what those fascists are like.”

Wilson ignored his last comment and leaned back against the railing to face Mickey. The fastest way to make him leave would be to just get it over with. “Alright. What was House’s diagnosis?”

“Well he inspected it and said some shit like based on the texture and consistency and some shit that it’s most likely Halitosis.” He pulled up his shirt to expose the rash. 

Wilson’s eyes darted up from where’d he’d been inspecting the rash to Mickey’s face looking for any hint of irony. There was none. Mickey was just looking down at him with wide ignorant eyes. He had to bite back a laugh because of course, of course, House would do something like this. It was supposed to make Wilson laugh and endear House to him. And it did, but he hated that it did. He hated that House had twisted him around so much that he could laugh at the ignorance of their patient. He hated more that he’d always found stupid patients entertaining, he had just never found someone he could laugh at them with, because everyone else tried to maintain the facade of being a good person, until he met House. But House didn’t get to just go back to the way it used to be. 

“He’s really the expert on obscure diseases. I couldn’t say.” Wilson turned back, ready to be done with the whole mess. There was a small part of him that couldn’t resist, though. “But as a doctor I think you should keep the skin clean and dry. Wear loose clothing if you can. It’ll help.”

“Thanks doc. You’re pretty cool.” Mickey said, patting his shoulder with a heavy thwack before retreating back the way he’d come. 

When Wilson leaned his forearms against the railing again, he found that House had made it to his cell most likely to rest his sore leg.

Does he hate House? He wished he could.

 

| | | | |

 

Wilson didn’t give himself time to talk himself out of it. He’d laid awake all night, staring at the ceiling as his mind raced. He’d had a few sleepless nights since he’d been here. A prison was hardly peaceful, even at night. The sound of a hundred other men breathing, snoring, jacking off, shifting, rumbling, praying got loud. Falling asleep was nearly impossible, suffocated by stagnant air and plagued by his own thoughts.

He’d reached the decision and talked himself out of it a hundred times over in the two hours it took for the morning activity to begin. The moment his cell door slid open after Count, Wilson travelled through the halls, refusing to spare another moment so he could reconsider.  

He waited for the C.O. in the infirmary to open the door before entering. A nurse stood alone in the main area restocking a drawer. He gave Wilson a sideways look before returning to his work. 

“I’m looking for Dr. Porter.” 

The nurse didn’t bother looking up as he gestured to a closed door in the far corner. Wilson approached it, and when the C.O. offered no objection, knocked lightly. There was no answer for a long moment. He nearly abandoned his entire plan, but his anger toward House had fizzled to a manageable level sometime in the night and he was willing to take this small step for him, no matter how inconvenient. He raised his hand to knock again when the door to the small office flew open. 

“What can I do for you?” Dr. Porter asked, leaning over her desk chair to reach the laptop on it’s surface. Her attention was fixed on her work as he stepped into the doorway.

“I need to have a word with you.”  
“Oh Dr. Wilson!” She straightened up to face him, smiling. He took another step into the small room, more comfortable after her warm reception. “How are you?”

“I’m keeping it together, all things considered.” He offered his most winning smile, which she returned easily. 

“That’s good to hear. I know transition in can be very difficult for some people. We have counseling services if you’re struggling. I know some other inmates have found them incredibly helpful in maintaining a positive attitude in this difficult time. ” 

Wilson wanted to laugh at how ridiculous that sounded. The administration wanted to make sure he was adjusting well to being stripped of his freedom. He might only be able to see sunlight for one hour a day but at least he can talk to a therapist about it. That sardonic voice in the back of his mind belonged to House and it only made it harder to suppress his bitter laughter.

He managed, somehow, and faked a sincere smile. “That’s good to know. Thank you. I’m actually here on behalf of a fellow inmate.”

Her smile dimmed from pleasant to politely confused as she tilted her head. “I can’t discuss my patients’ medical information with anyone. Especially another inmate.”

“I’m not asking you to, believe me.” Wilson jumped to clarify. “He’s my friend and a patient. Well, former patient. Gregory House has a condition that causes chronic pain.” 

“I’m familiar with House’s condition.” She said, defensively. Her smile had all but disappeared, replaced by suspicion. 

“Well, It has come to my attention that he is still suffering from pain. I don’t believe he’s been prescribed a high enough dosage on his pain medication.” He explained. “It needs to be taken into consideration the high tolerance he has built up since-”

“From abusing his dosages and obtaining more medication than has been prescribed. Yes, I understand.” She put her hands on her hips and all the warm familiarity in her look was gone.

“It’s more complicated than-”

“I have no interest in helping him feed his addiction, Dr. Wilson.” She nearly shoved him out of her office as she pushed forward and closed the door behind her, effectively ending their private conversation. 

“Neither do I, I’ve been trying to help him help for years. But he’ll keep refusing to get any as long as he’s in pain.”

Dr. Porter started to walk away, but turned back after only a step. “Inmates have a tendency to exaggerate their conditions to get access to more drugs. I can’t have drug floating around the prison every time someone fakes a limp.”

Wilson was stunned. How any doctor could be so insensitive to disability he had no idea. He had to concede that working in a prison for any length of time would darken a person’s perspective, but to ignore a patient in pain because it was inconvenient was disconcerting. “I’ve been his doctor for almost fifteen years. I’m familiar with his case. He’s not faking it.”

“He has a history of drug abuse. I’m familiar with your case Dr. Wilson and you have a history of enabling his reckless behavior. The warden spoke with me about the two of you.” She lowered her voice, looking around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. if she wanted privacy, Wilson wasn’t sure why she’d left her office. “He told me about what happened with House the last time he was incarcerated. He’s a dangerous man and your association with him going forward will only hurt you more than it already has.”

There it was again. You had so much going for you. It’s such a shame you got caught up in his mess. Wilson bit back his anger as she continued to speak and kept up the pleasant facade that made him well liked around the hospital. He had nearly calmed himself when she said, “He’s an addict who knows exactly how to play you to elicit sympathy.”

While there was some truth in that, House had no idea he was even there. He hadn’t played Wilson to get more pills. All he’d done was try and fail to live with his condition under the circumstances. Still, she believed, like the others, that he was just a puppet for House to manipulate as he pleased. 

“He’s not playing anyone.” Wilson tried, his tenuous grasp on his calm slipping. “He just-”

“All due respect Dr. Wilson-”

“Stop interrupting me!” He snapped, voice echoing in the nearly empty clinic. The resounding silence and look of fear on Dr. Porter’s face was a harsh reminder of where he was and the huge mistake he’d made.

“I think you need to leave.” She said, taking a step back. The nurse had come to stand beside her, nearly putting himself between them. 

“I just meant…” Wilson’s words trailed off as the C.O. approached, cautiously and with his hand on the nightstick at his waist. 

“Come on inmate.” He grunted, nudging his arm to push him toward the door. 

Wilson threw his hands up in surrender. After a moment of tension at the sudden movement, the guard loosened his grip on his club and escorted him out into the hall.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper. I really didn’t mean to shout like that.” Wilson stopped in the hall and tried to explain as the door closed after them. 

The guard, Samson Wilson learned after a quick glance at his name tag, studied him for a moment. For a terrifying second, Wilson was sure he was about to get a taste of the corrupt correctional system, but the C.O. just rolled his eyes and said, “Get out of here.” 

“Really? No disciplinary action?” Wilson kicked himself the second the words were out of his mouth. 

Samson arched a brow and crossed his arms, “You want some disciplinary action?”

“No, no.” He answered quickly. As he turned to flee before he could do anything else stupid, he paused and looked back.

“Don’t expect any special treatment or anything. Another peep out of you and you’re going to solitary.” Samson dropped his arms as he dropped his bravado. “Look, after I heard you talking with Mel the other day I looked you up. I know all about your situation. You seem like an alright guy. It’s not your fault you’re in here. You’re supposed to be in min.”

As much as his comment chafed him, Wilson gave him a genuinely grateful smile and said, “Thanks.”

“Just keep your nose clean.” Samson said and went to the door to return to his post inside the clinic. “And no more yelling.”

Wilson nodded and retreated before he could change his mind. 

 

| | | | |

 

The library could only keep him occupied for so long before his mind began to wander. There were a few medical journals buried on dusty shelves, but they were years old and completely unrelated to Oncology. A few dime bin mystery novels that he solved in thirty pages. Some classics that put him to sleep. He had a feeling that in a few months, those classics would be a lot more appealing but for now, he left the library and paced the upper balcony of his cell block. 

Admitting to himself that he didn’t hate House freed up his mind for new brooding about the people he’d hurt in his life, the places he never saw, the things he never did. He’d wasted his youth striving for the perfect life complete with perfect job, perfect wife, and perfect record of well mannered responsibility. Now he was on the cusp of middle age and everything he had worked so hard for was gone. He had nothing to show for it but regret. 

He’d been divorced three times-He supposed he was lucky he hadn’t given in to Bonnie when she wanted kids-his reputation went down in flames when he perjured himself, and Cuddy had promised him his job when he got out but he couldn’t be sure that offer still stood after how rude he’d been toward the end of her visit. 

Cuddy had posed her question that he hadn’t been able to answer and she was pissed he hadn’t taken her side. House drove a car through her house after all and had nearly run Wilson over in the process. They got into an argument about it and she left quickly after. 

It bothered him now more than it had in the week since it happened. He couldn’t stand the idea that Cuddy thought Wilson thought House was in the right. The idea that the last good thing he had in his life might be gone because of it only made him walk faster toward the bank of phones. 

The phone rang and he was directed to the nurse’s station in the clinic. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but Cuddy was one of the only friends he had left. He didn’t want to throw that away for something so stupid. He explained that much when he finally got her on the phone, and she accepted his apology without any reluctance. 

“It’s alright. Really. I’m not angry.” She said. “You’ve had a tough time of it. I almost wish House hadn’t confessed. You might’ve been able to get away with the lie.”

“Confessed?” Wilson asked, stunned. “He rolled on me?” 

“You’ve only been in there a few weeks. That’s not an appropriate amount of time for you to start using prison slang.” Cuddy’s voice barely reached him through the shock and anger swelling inside him. 

“I have to go.”

“Sure. Things to do, people to see.” She said, a light note of sarcasm coloring her tone. He hung up without responding and dialed his lawyer, a number that had gotten more use in the last six months than his entire six years of clientship. 

Wilson expected a bit of resistance when he asked, without any pleasantries, “House confessed?”

To his credit, the lawyer tried to put up a flimsy barrier of attorney client privilege to keep from discussing House, but dropped it as soon as Wilson started yelling. 

“He didn’t roll on you!” He said, in a way that sounded like he had loosened his tie and run an exasperated hand through his hair. “Why do you keep saying that? You’re the whitest guy I know. You can’t pull that off.” 

“Ziddler.” Wilson nearly growled. Just when he’d felt himself starting to forgive House….to learn he’d gone behind Wilson’s back to try to save himself, practically thrown him under the bus. 

“He tried to confess privately but Tritter dragged it out. He had the prosecution wait to present the stamp so the judge would catch you both in a lie to make your sentences worse.”

“I can’t believe that bastard. I lied for him-”

“Which I strongly advised against.”

“-And he just gave me up.” Wilson slumped against the wall and buried his face in his free hand.

“He didn’t roll on you and he didn’t give you up.” Ziddler said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say. He tried to make it look like you had no idea about any of it. That you wrote the prescriptions lawfully and he copied them without your knowledge so you wouldn’t go down for any of it.” 

“He…He did?” 

“Yeah. He even wanted to make up some crazy story about how you found out and he knocked you over the head to give you brain damage.” 

Wilson laughed, actually laughed, despite it all. For the first time in months, he could laugh about House’s ridiculous antics and not have his happiness tainted with his anger. House had tried to protect him, would’ve taken all the blame to protect Wilson just like Wilson had done for House.

“That sounds like him.” Wilson huffed another laugh. “That’s all I guess.”

“Sure.” Ziddler said, sounding ready to hang up. Just before he did, he said, “Keep your head on straight. And you and House stick together. It’s the only way the two of you are going to make it out of this unscathed.”

“Thank you.” Wilson said but the lawyer hung up before he heard.

Wilson returned the receiver to the cradle slowly and precisely as he considered his newfound knowledge. He drifted away from the phone bank and wandered back in the direction of his cell block, stunned and elated and somehow still angry. But for the first time in a very long time he could breath without a weight crushing his chest.

House was everything he had always been, a reckless, selfish addict, but he’d tried to lie for Wilson. In arguably his most selfish moment of his entire life, House tried to protect him. Even though they both ended up in prison because of what he’d done, Wilson knew he would forgive him.  

He would rationalize House’s self destructive behavior-chalk it up to his pain, or his addiction, or his inability to cope with his own feelings-because this relationship was the only meaningful thing left in Wilson’s life. As much as he hated that, he wasn’t ready to let it go. 

Even with his new resolve to salvage what was left of his friendship, Wilson wasn’t sure how to face him yet. He’d spent so much time being angry with him and vowing never to speak to him again, and generally loathing him that all those nasty emotions were still there. Now they clashed with his relief and the mess inside him was confusing at best.

A few feet away from his cell, he ran into Mickey who was just leaving. He blocked Wilson’s path and commanded his attention. “Hey, doc!”

“Mickey.” Wilson greeted, struggling to hold back the frustrated sigh that was quickly becoming commonplace at the sight of this particular inmate. 

“How ya been?” He asked but continued before Wilson could give the generic response he’d worked up, “I went back to see your buddy Dr. House about my Halitinosis, because the rash got worse, right? He said he’d need a consultation. So I figured you could help out. Since we’re such good friends and all.”

“House and I aren’t really on speaking terms.” Wilson said, though he briefly considered. It was a good enough cover to get them talking to each other again without having to talk about the fact that they were talking again. But it occurred to Wilson that this had probably been House’s intention and even though he was considering reconciliation, that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for House. 

“But you said you’d help me, man.”

Wilson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Was he really that oblivious that he distorted this situation in his mind so much that he actually believed Wilson agreed to any of this? “Look, I’m sorry about your problem, but I no longer practice medicine. The staff in the clinic are more than equipped to deal with it.”

Mickey’s brows sunk lower as his anger rose to the surface. He took a step toward into Wilson’s personal space, looming over him darkly. Wilson tried to take a step a back but Mickey’s hand shot out and clutched at the front of his shirt, anchoring him in his shadow. The threat was silent, unspoken but Wilson understood. 

All at once Mickey released his shirt and shove him back, returning to his normal slumped height. Wilson stumbled back a few steps but caught himself before he fell. 

“Now, Dr. House said it could be something in my head.” Mickey said. Wilson straightened his shirt with sharp movements, silent frustration straining under his skin. “He said something about a depleted frontal lobe. Do you think he could be right, doc?”

Wilson stared at him, torn between his outrage and his instinct of self preservation. He wanted to have a cruel laugh at this inmate’s expense over the joke House had made, wanted to get even with him for thinking he could intimidate him, wanted to indulge in the ongoing joke House had been playing on this brute. The only thing stopping him was fear for his own safety. Any reservations about sparing Mickey’s feelings vanished the minute he thought he could bully him into treating him. The man was twice his size and could probably pummel him into the ground, but Wilson knew how to get the upper hand, even if it was petty, and even if he really only thought of it because he knew it would make House smile. “You know, I don’t think we’d be able to see any evidence of that without an MRI, but I think I’ve figured it out.”

“What is it?” 

He gathered himself up and tried to inject as much certainty and authority into his voice as he could to cover up the wavering of his lips as a smile threatened to break through. “It’s Lupus.” 

Mickey’s blank stare burned into him, but Wilson matched his gaze and kept his face clear. Mickey was the first to break the contact. He threw his hands up and shouted, “You’re just making shit up now. I’m going to the clinic.” 

Wilson kept still until Mickey was out of sight, and, when he was gone, let his smile loose. He entered his cell, expecting to find Tyrell sprawled across the bottom bunk as he always seemed to be, but he was gone. Instead he came face to face with House who was perched on the small cabinet beside the bed. His legs dangled carelessly over the edge and he bounced the rubber end of his standard issue cane in a frantic rhythm against the floor.   

“Lupus? Really Jimmy? I know you’re just an oncologist but I thought you could do better than that.” House tried for derisive but his smirk and the warmth in his eyes gave him away. He understood what Wilson had really meant. 

Wilson laughed and for a moment, House looked caught off guard, stunned that he hadn’t already stormed away in anger or shouted at him to get out. He took the opportunity to approach him and leaned against the wall before him. “Well it has to be Lupus sometimes.” 

“It’s never Lupus.” 


End file.
